


An Improper Understanding

by ChibiSquirt



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens, Aliens Made Them Do It, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, First Time, Fuck Or Die, M/M, They're forced to fuck in front of an audience basically, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-20 10:28:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16554059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiSquirt/pseuds/ChibiSquirt
Summary: “I’m taking the bottom” was the first thing Steve said when the guard was gone, and instantly Sam was kicking himself for not seeing it coming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TetrodotoxinB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/gifts).



> This is dubcon, not noncon, but I smashed that warning button anyway because I'd rather have the excess of caution, and because Sam thinks of it as nonconsensual, which may well make the difference. 
> 
> Written for tetrodotoxinb as a reward/positive motivator for doing their therapy. Self-edited but unbeta'ed.

“I’m taking the bottom” was the first thing Steve said when the guard was gone, and instantly Sam was kicking himself for not seeing it coming.

“No the fuck you are not,” he said adamantly. “No way in hell, man!  I have _done_ this before, I was with Riley for _four years,_ and anyway I’m better at handling trauma than you are— don’t _start,_ Steve, that fact is _well_ documented!— and you gotta be able to get up in case we have to fight our way out, after.”  

Sam crossed his arms after that last point, confident that it was a doozy.  

The Avengers might possibly, kind of, sort of, a little bit have gotten into a _tiny_ amount of alien legal trouble.  As in, Clint and Wanda had been caught joking back and forth between each other during the admittedly creepy alien coronation ceremony, and it turned out that was a felony on this planet.  The Capricanse guard had said they could pay their companions’ fines with a public display of humiliation and offered several choices of method, but... This was the one that didn’t leave wounds.  Or at least, not visible ones.

Probably, their ‘fine’ would be enough that Clint and Wanda would be released and they could join everyone else back on Earth again.  Probably, there wouldn’t be any fighting required.

But.  What _if._

Steve just gave Sam a level, even look, though.  “Healing factor,” he said in a tone like it was the end of the discussion.

After a second of furious struggle, Sam had to admit it kind of _was._ All of the arguments Sam had made except the trauma one were negated by Steve’s healing factor, although every fiber of Sam’s body cringed to admit it.  It wasn’t like Sam liked the idea of injuring his partner... and that was when the partner in question _wasn’t_  the kind of great guy Steve was.  When it was Steve...

Sam would literally have rather died than hurt Steve.  Unfortunately, he knew that _Steve_ would rather die than let the rest of his team suffer.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered.

 

* * *

 

Sam made a point of insisting that, whatever the Capricans did, he and Steve would not be going forward with this without lube.  That was the one concession he actually got: condoms were back on Earth, and a small audience, he was told, “contradicted the entire spirit of the punishment.”  

Clint and Wanda had damn well better _appreciate_ this.

Steve had been quiet since the decision had been reached.  The Capricans had announced it to their people, and given folks a couple of hours to gather around the— “Jesus, it looks like we’re about to fight Hulk Hogan for the heavyweight belt!”

Sam’s exclamation was loud in the small, cramped hallway they were being led down, but it was accurate.  The hall opened onto a stage with rope fences around it, and surrounding the stage on all sides, including above them, were aliens.  

It was a big crowd, all doing the Capricanse equivalent of stomping and screaming in anticipation.  Sam was actually kind of impressed that they could scream that much through all the mandibles.

For the first time since insisting on bottoming, Steve seemed to wake up from his fugue.  He paused— the guards around them all tensed— and turned towards Sam. “I should’ve thought,” he said, tone urgent, “can you do it with a— an audience?  I know that sometimes— if it’s a mind thing, I don’t blame...”

Sam stopped to think about it.  The humiliation aspect of this was definitely working as the Capricans intended.  He could feel the burn of it in the back of his mind, sending small twitches down his spine, making his balls squeeze.  But also... it was _Steve._

That... well.  That wasn’t an _in_ significant point...

“I can do it,” he said.  He grimaced. “Does it matter?  Because, man, I’m guessing _you_ wouldn’t be okay doing in front of the crowd...”  He trailed off and gave Steve an opportunity to tell him he was wrong, but the fact was, they both knew he wasn’t.  “So it’ll have to be me. No problem; I got this.”

Sam nodded firmly, hoping he did actually got this.  

The Capricanse guards led them up to the... okay, it really did look like a boxing ring.  Sam heard Steve’s small snort beside him confirming the impression, even. The guards pointed to the center and stood back.  Sam entered first and then immediately stood aside, letting Steve in behind him.

The alien guards re-hooked the ropes and stood back, one at each corner of the ring— that wasn’t too bad; Sam and Steve could probably take four, if they had to, and if there weren’t more out of sight past the lights.  The crowd went fucking _mad_ as soon as the ring closed, screaming at five times the volume they had before.  Sam only realized that they had quieted a little at his and Steve’s entrance once they resumed the cacophony.

He thought about what he knew of the Capricanse culture.  Capricans were strong and formal, like Thor’s Asgardian background on steroids.  Took slights very seriously. They didn’t call the concept “face,” but it was essentially that.  Their overall forms were vaguely humanoid, but their faces were upside down: the eyes were between the mouth and the neck-mandibles, their noses and horns at the top.  From what Sam could tell, they had some sort of inhibition about chins, because they all wore these sort of Burka-esque head coverings that only revealed their eyes and mouths— although their bodies from the chest down were mostly clad in things that could pass for swimsuits.  

Probably wouldn’t make anything worse to take his clothes off then, right?  If these folks were mostly naked anyway? Some of them would have to come off regardless— “demonstrating a mating ritual” was pretty much going to require it— but if showing his knees was going to piss them off, he would’ve wanted to avoid it.  Still, these folks seemed okay with knees.

He shrugged off his flight pack.

The mood in the arena changed instantly.  The screams and noisemakers quieted, and an excited hum started up.  Steve and Sam exchanged a look and a shrug.

Steve took off his shield, and then his uniform jacket next, the white star of it rippling as Steve let it fall to the ground.  Sam responded by taking off _his_ jacket, and the shirt underneath.

An excited Capricanse voice stopped them both.  It ran out a couple sentences, sounding like— “Oh my god, they’ve got an _announcer,”_ Sam groaned.  

“A what?  ...Like in _sports?!”_ Steve looked dismayed and uncertain.

“Yes, like in fucking sports.”  No pun intended. Sam flashed back to watching his little sister’s skating competitions and groaned.  “There better not be a judge. Somebody gives me a five point three, Clint and Wanda can just stay _here.”_

Steve cracked a smile for a second.  Then his face turned resolved. “I’m sure we’ll be better than a five-point-three.”  He opened his pants, hands working the buttons of his fly with a surety Sam envied. He didn’t just let the pants fall; he eased them to the ground and stepped out of them, standing aside from the pile of clothes in only his briefs.  Tighty-whities: Sam really couldn’t quite feel surprised.

Sam got down to his own boxers, then dropped those, too, with only a second of pause.  “Come on,” he said.

The Capricans had provided a bed— sort of.  It was more like a broad, long coffee table with padding.  Sam had taken one look at it and immediately thought “sex furniture,” and the more he looked at it the more accurate the judgement seemed.  It had a soft top, but solid legs with wide feet to prevent slippage. It was pretty much groin height if you were on your knees, or if you were standing and the person on it was kneeling their mouth would be right at crotch level.  The top was a soft, leather-like material, pleasant to the touch but non-absorbent.

Yeah, it was a sex table.  

It was also located just left-of-center in the middle of the ring.  A large jar of gloop— most likely Capricance lube— was placed conveniently close.

Okay, then.

Steve got onto the sex-table without Sam saying anything to him, shucking his briefs at the last second before climbing on.  Sam gave him a minute, let him choose a position— if Steve wanted to be on his stomach or back, Sam had no problems dropping to his knees for it— but instead of arranging himself, Steve got onto the table one knee at a time and then just... stopped.  Like a toy that had wound down. His head tilted forward as if he were examining the table, and then he just... stopped.

Sam walked up to him cautiously, stopping a couple of feet away.  “You okay?” he asked. He kept his voice low. He was pretty sure the Capricans didn’t have mikes on them, because while he could see large screens displaying a close-up of them for the audience out of the corner of his eye, he thought they’d have heard it by now if there were speakers, too.  Still, it didn’t hurt to be quiet.

The skin of Steve’s back rippled as he shrugged.  “Fine,” he said. “Just waiting for you.” His voice was... off, somehow.  The challenge rang hollow. It could’ve just been nerves, but it could’ve been something else, too.

Still, not much Sam could do if Steve was giving him the go-ahead.  “Hokay!”

Sam reached out a cautious hand, touching the twitching skin of Steve’s back.  It was easy to forget, working with the guy every day, hanging out with him, being his buddy, but Steve was in fact _hot as hell._ Physically, this wasn’t going to be a problem; Sam could already see it.  Steve had just _so much skin,_ all golden and smooth.  No scars anywhere, thanks to the serum.  Not too much hair, either. Sam traced a hand over his back and found it perfectly smooth.  

He trailed his hands— first one, then both together— over Steve’s shoulders, smoothing the muscles and then doing a little actual massage, warming and relaxing him.  He rubbed the tension away from Steve’s neck and shoulders, letting his hands trail down Steve’s arms. Kneeling up on the sex table, Steve was pretty much exactly a perfect height for it.  Sam avoided his neck, but did work down his back, rubbing his knuckles down the wire-tight muscles along Steve’s spine, the ones holding Steve’s spine so straight your could’ve strung telephone wires from him.  

He let his hands wander south when he was done with that.  Sam was a big enough man to admit there was a little bit of wish fulfillment going on, underneath all the awfulness.  Steve had a _fantastic_ ass, what little there was of it, the two cheeks round and tight.  Every time Sam looked at it, _really_ looked at it— which he normally avoided doing, because there was no need to go making his life any harder than it already was, pun _fully_ intended— he had always had this little mini-game fantasy of pulling the cheeks apart and watching the hole twitch.

So that was what he did.  Steve’s hole was clean and tidy, unused looking; when Sam bared it to the air it clenched for a second.  Sam couldn’t help the little smile that spread across his face at the sight.

Steve’s breath had rushed out of him in a gasp, and now he was shuddering and taking deep breaths.  The announcer said something overhead— Sam didn’t speak the language, but it sounded like the equivalent of analyzing their form on the triple-axel— but both of them were ignoring it.  

“Lotta things I could do,” Sam said speculatively.  He kept his voice gentle and low, but the shaking eagerness inside of him probably still came through.  This was terrible circumstances— this was the _worst_ circumstances— but he had maybe had a crush on Steve since he saw those tits walk up to him and check on him where he was lying against a tree, and there was a part of him doing victory dances because his hindbrain had literally no shame.  “Lotta things. Not really the place for rimming—” Steve stiffened, but didn’t say anything when Sam paused for him. “— and not really the ideal setting for edging, either. If this were real...”

He had a full view of Steve’s back, so he could _watch_ the muscles knit into knots at that.  He dropped his voice and leaned a little closer, all but murmuring in Steve’s ear.  “If we were _making love,_ or even just _fucking,_ instead of _publicly fornicating to pay a fine..._ those would both be things I wanted.  If this were just us... Man, I would be taking my _time.”_

Steve shuddered and cracked, dropping out of his ramrod-straight posture, bending over until his hands touched the padding enough to brace him.  He hung there for a second, then came back upright, his head up and cocked slightly to the side. Sam didn’t have to see his face to know the expression that was on it, and his heart thumped pathetically in his chest.  

“Since it’s not just us...”  Steve’s voice was low, too, firmer and warmer by far than Sam had dared to hope.  “...how about you just get it done with, and maybe we can try it again for ‘real’ some other time?”

Sam froze for a second, because that had sounded an awful lot like...  But he couldn’t think about that now. “Okay,” he said, “okay.” He moved forward the last step, pressing his front against Steve all up and down the length of them, chest and hips touching against Steve’s back and shoulders and ass.  He wrapped his hands around Steve and cupped his pecs. “How are your nipples, man? You like ‘em played with, or should I avoid them?”

Steve tensed in his arms, and when he spoke there was panic seeping into his voice.  “Uh... I don’t... No one’s ever...”

Sam leaned in a little more and scrubbed his face, catlike, across Steve’s shoulder.  He remembered deciding to hold off on kissing, earlier, but _damn_ it was being hard to follow through!  Around them, the crowd was making noise, an excited hum that had Sam remembering where they were and what they were really doing.  “Alright. So we do it the way we’re gonna do everything else, since I’m pretty sure you haven’t been been with a guy before, either:  I’ll try it, and if you don’t like it, we do something else.”

He cupped Steve’s pecs and then shifted his hands, fingers toying lightly against the nips.  Nothing too hard, nothing too intense. He wanted to give Steve the idea that this was a trial, not a commitment.  

Steve’s breath caught and he squirmed, but after a second, he relaxed into the sensation.  “Good?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said.  He leaned backward, his head coming down to rest against Sam’s shoulder.  “Yeah, that’s—! Oh. Yes, that’s, I like that—”

“I thought you’d be pretty good with it.”  Sam spoke smoothly, turning his head so he was speaking directly into Steve’s ear.  “They get hard a lot, your nips. Your _running shirts,_ man... those things are a _trial._ Make me want to—”  He pinched, demonstrating.  

Steve gasped, arching up, pressing into his hands.  Sam grinned, hiding his face in Steve’s neck.

He lingered over Steve’s chest for a while after that, enjoying the play of Steve’s body as it got more and more desperate.  He could just see over Steve’s shoulder, see Steve’s cock getting harder and harder, first against Steve’s thigh, then up to his lower stomach.  Every once in a while, Sam would take his hands off Steve’s chest— he couldn’t help the grin when Steve gave an involuntary whine at the loss— and run them down, over Steve’s abs (which should have been _illegal,_ Jesus Christ those things were cut enough to grate _cheese_ on) and over his hips, dancing over and around his cock without touching.  

He tried to monitor the crowd as he went, keeping an ear tuned to their frequency at the same time he was taking care of Steve.  He didn’t want it to be bad for Steve, but at the same time he also didn’t want the local authorities coming to him and saying they hadn’t been good enough, and they would have to do it again.  So when the crowd noise shifted from hush to the bored rumbling of folks who were maybe thinking about getting up for another round of alien nachos, he moved on, grasping Steve’s cock firmly for the first time, pumping it a couple of times to get it fully erect and leaking at the tip.  He scrubbed his cheek against Steve’s shoulder again, still not ready to go for the full kiss.

Alien nachos had just completely lost out; the crowd was engaged again, their interest re-captured.  Sam took the opportunity to reach for the jar of lube next to the sex table, dipping both hands in and coating them thoroughly.  

Alien lube was blue, he discovered, slick enough for even the tightest ass— which was good, because this was _Steve—_ and smelled faintly floral and fruity, like cherry blossoms or something.  And hopefully it wouldn’t cause either of them to break out in hives, but too late to worry about that now.  Sam stood back behind Steve— who was trembling faintly, although too minutely for the watching crowd to be in the know— and let his forehead rest on the other man’s shoulder.  “Okay,” he said. It was a warning and a comfort at once, bracing and soft. “Okay, Steve.... Here we go...”

He slipped his fingers between Steve’s ass cheeks first, laying them over the hole without pressing in at all, just coating the crevice with the lube.  Steve gave a full-body shudder when he did it, but didn’t object or move at all other than that. “You want me to change position?” he asked. “I can do hands and knees...”

“Nah.”  Sam stroked, up and down the crack, still not pressing forward at all, just getting Steve used to feeling something in a place where previously no one had ever touched.  “Save that for if we need the leverage. Dunno, Steve, how hard do you want it?”

The last sentence was a challenge and a joke at once, and Sam instantly regretted saying it.  It was the sort of thing he would’ve said if this were real, the sort of thing he would actually have said if he and Steve were truly becoming lovers.  It was out of place in this arena, inappropriate because of the lack of choice.

Steve was silent for a minute.  Sam could just see the edge of Steve’s face if he tilted his head to the side; Steve’s eyes were open, scanning the arena.  His jaw worked silently, and then he tipped his head back onto Sam’s chest, relaxing. “I can do this all day,” he said dryly.  “Might have to, too, if you don’t get on with it.”

“Yeah, alright, fine— okay.  Excuse me for wanting to take it slow, make sure I’m not _violating your boundaries—”_

“What boundaries?  You once helped me get my boot off when there was a literal _dead fish_ in it, I’m pretty sure we’re past _boundaries—”_

Sam rolled his eyes and slipped a finger in.  Just one finger, because he wasn’t a monster, but it was the index, and he slid it all the way in, and, yeah, it had been just a little bit mean.  Steve _gasped—_ enormously satisfying— and the Capricanse announcer above them rumbled out something uncertain.  Probably couldn’t get a good view of the proceedings.

Sam paused.  “Shit.”

“What?”  Steve’s voice and body had gone right back to carrying all the tension Sam had just carefully worked _out_ of him, damn it.  Sam slipped his finger out again.

“Nothing, I just— I don’t think they can see.”

“Who _cares?”_ And that was sweet, that Steve was bringing that level of indignation to this, maybe at least partially on Sam’s behalf, but actually, _Sam_ cared.

“If we have to do this over again because they aren’t convinced we did it the first time...”

Steve slumped.  “Oh,” he said. “Good point.”  

“We got this,” Sam said confidently.  “Lemme get on—” He sat down on the edge of the sex table, scooting back from the edge until it hit the backs of his knees.  “Now, kneel over my lap. They’ll be able to see, I’ll be able to open you up, everybody wins.”

 _“Jesus,”_ Steve muttered, the curse filthy in his mouth.  He shook his head. “Thank god _you’re_ able to think about it, at least.”  He got down from the table and rearranged, climbing back on and draping himself over Sam’s lap, his cock bobbing as he moved.

Sam smoothed a hand over Steve’s ass once he was in position, unable to keep himself from the motion.  It was too much— too tender, too possessive for their current circumstances— but that was okay; Steve wouldn’t put it together.  And Sam didn’t _care_ what the Capricans figured out.

Taking a deep breath, Sam slipped his finger into Steve’s ass again.  The hole was just as tight the second time, clinging too closely to Sam’s flesh.  It was almost sucking him in, it was so tight. The alien lube was pretty good; not too runny, stayed where Sam put it...  Steve reached out his long arms to snag the pot from beside the sex table, and Sam took another dollop and coated his hands again, rubbing it forward and back over Steve’s hole before slipping his finger in again and pumping.  One stroke, two, then he crooked his finger and tugged at the hole from the inside.

 _That_ got a gasp.  Steve pushed upwards on his palms, then dropped back down to his elbows again like he had been.  “You doing okay?” Sam asked him.

“Fine.”  Steve’s voice was muffled.  He had his face pressed into the padded surface of the sex table, obscuring his words.  The tone was clear enough, though. Sam pulled out and massaged again, pressing gently against the muscle.  He let his fingers drift towards the perineum, pushing in with his thumb, then dragged them back up towards Steve’s hole again.

He used two this time, just as careful as before.  He went to the tugging motion sooner, though, trying to see if Steve would lean into it or away.  Lean in, it turned out; Steve seemed to like the ache and pull of it, faint moans and gasps working their way out of his throat as Sam opened him gently from the inside.  

The Capricans were starting to hum again by the time he was satisfied that Steve was loose enough.  The announcer had shifted from speculative to certain to slightly-disappointed, and there was really no justification for Sam to stall anymore.  

He swallowed and gave Steve a friendly, nervous pat on the ass.  “It’s time, man. Think you can make it to your back?”

It took Steve a moment to answer, and even then, it was only with a nod.  Steve pressed himself up and back on his palms, then shoved off of Sam’s shoulder to get upright on his knees.  Sam bit his lip at the sight.

Steve looked _good._ His lips were red, bitten and shiny; his eyes were dark and unfocused.  He had a fetching pink flush all down over his chest, and his nipples were pink and erect for Sam.  His stomach quivered, faint twitches of the muscles. His eyes were vacant, pupils dilated and gaze unfixed.  He looked turned on and worked up, and his dick, which was solid and shiny with precome, had smeared clear fluid across his skin.  

Steve turned on his knees until he was facing away from Sam, raised his hands next to his head, and toppled forward, betrayingly awkward:  he was _wrecked._  He hit the sex table and bounced.  Sam had seen him do push-ups that way, clapping his hands in between each one, mostly when some other guy in the gym had been a douche, but this time Sam thought it was just cushioning his topple.  He had gone down pretty hard.

When Steve hit the sex table again, he had come into a more long-term position, hands and knees:  doggy style it was, apparently.  Not Sam’s favorite position, but not his least favorite, either.  He could work with it.

The hum of their audience had swollen, rising to a roar as Steve changed position.  Sam let his eyes flick upward, making contact with his own gaze reflected back on a dozen cinema-sized screens.  The Capricans were a swarm of wrapped heads and exposed limbs, gangling like oversized spiders with head colds. For a second, Sam hated them, passionately, pointlessly.  It wasn’t exactly their fault— but at the same time, it was all their fault, and this was not how he would have chosen to do this. Not with an audience, and _not_ by force.  Never ever.

But hatred did no good, and the only way out was forward.  Sam looked down at Steve, still waiting in position. Steve’s back had gone stiff again, and his dick was perceptibly less hard.  Second thoughts time, and Steve wasn’t the only one.

“You sure about this?” Sam asked.  He kept his voice low, but... he had to ask.  One last chance to say no. One last chance to back out.

Sweat dripped from Steve’s chin as he shook his head.  “Just do it,” Steve gritted.

Sam glanced up at the screens one more time— the Capricanse announcer said something, his voice full of smug relish— then knelt behind Steve.  He swallowed nervously.

Steve was well-prepped; Sam hadn’t stinted on that.  He was tense, but, Sam thought, anyone would be. He was a lot less tense than he had been when they started, anyway.  Sam reached out with his left hand and smoothed it down the warm skin of Steve’s crack, one more caress before he went forward with this.  Steve shivered.

Sam wrapped his right hand around his own cock.  

He hadn’t counted on the alien lube, still coating his hand from fingering Steve.  Hadn’t counted on the way it would make his cock look faintly different, the way it would make the touch of his own hand feel hotter.  He didn’t want it to feel good, although obviously it would have to. He wanted to hate the sensation as much as he hated the whole damn scenario.  

But it felt _really_ damn good, slick and hot and— when Sam instinctively tightened his fist— just the right amount of pressure, _so good—_

He had wondered if the horror of it would get him, if the knowledge that he was essentially sexually assaulting his best friend would make it hard to finish.  He wasn’t worried about that anymore, though; it was having an effect, all right, but it was the other kind of effect. The worse one.

He pressed forward, touching the tip of dick to Steve’s hole.

The flesh was hot and puffy, the hole swollen and blushing under the attention Sam had already given it.  Sam pressed forward and watch it spread and turn inward, even the copious amounts of lube he had used not enough to completely banish friction.  Wider and wider, slowly giving way under the advance of Sam’s cock— and it wasn’t like Sam was undersized to help anything— until the head was at its widest point—

Steve groaned.

Sam stopped  

“You okay?” he asked frantically.  “Is that— too much? Should I pull back, or...?”

“Do not pull back,” Steve gritted.  “If you pull back I will get hard again just so I can _personally_ stab you in the eye with my dick.”

“Right,” Sam said, “Got it.”  He pushed forward another half inch  The head passed through the tightest part of the ring of muscle and this time they both groaned at the sensation.  “Fuck!”

“That.  Is. The idea!”

“Right,” Sam said again.  He pushed forward in microscoping thrusts, one quarter-inch at a time, watching in fascination as Steve’s body accepted more and more of him inside.  Inside he was— silk, god damn, slick and soft and so _hot,_ damn near burning Sam’s cock.  The bliss tried to wriggle under Sam’s skin to where the wrongness was resting, and Sam shuddered all over.  He came to a rest buried to the hilt in Steve’s ass.

Steve was panting, a hint of a whine behind the open gasps of it.  He pounded one fist into the padded surface of the sex-table, maybe thinking Sam couldn’t see it from the angle he was at.  Sam could see it. Sam could _feel_ it:  the impact went through the table beneath him, as well as Steve’s body around him.

He started pulling out again, groping behind him for the lube to get one last coating in as he slid back out of Steve’s hole.  Steve was hot enough that the air around them was cool by comparison, even though the damned ring was hot as hell under all the lights.

The ring.  The lights.  Fuck _all_ of this.  The Capricans were screaming so loud it was _deafening._

Sam wrapped his hand around himself, the head of his cock still resting inside Steve, but enough of the shaft exposed that he could get one last coating in place.  “You ready?” he muttered. “Gonna do this pretty abrupt, okay? No need to draw it out, I’m thinking.”

Steve shuddered the same way Sam kept wanting to.  “Yeah,” he agreed. His voice sounded like he had been screaming for days.  “Do it.”

Sam moved his now-lubey hand to Steve’s right hip, a mirror to the one he already had on the left.  Even with what he’d just said, he paused a second, giving Steve a moment to brace, and sure enough he felt Steve’s muscles clenching around him.

He thrust.

It was a short, sharp, brutal pace, rhythmic as a metronome and just as warm.  He was going for completion points only, here; pass-fail, no partial credit. Just get this _done._ He was pretty sure he wasn’t hitting Steve’s prostate— the angle wasn’t quite right, and shifting his hips downward only made him glance off it every once in a while— but he wasn’t going to mess around trying to figure it out.  They were so close to _done,_ here; he just wanted to _finish._

It was the least sexy sex he had ever had.

Steve was almost entirely soft by the end of it, a semi-chub at best.  Before, when Sam had pushed into him, he had been hard and leaking against his own stomach.  Sam ground his teeth together and sped up.

He finished with three short, sharp thrusts that had Steve grunting underneath him on each of them, pulling out just in time to shoot his load onto Steve’s naked back.  Steve jumped at the touch of come on his skin.

“Sorry,” Sam panted, “sorry.  Should’ve warned you, but— I thought they would want to see.”    

Steve groaned and collapsed down to the sex table.  For a second Sam panicked— was he injured? Had Sam gone too hard?? — but then Steve rolled sideways, smearing the jizz onto the padded leather-like cover.  He slid off the other side of the sex table and stumbled, but before Sam could move he had righted himself and reached for their clothes.

The world was swimming, and Sam felt like he couldn’t keep up.  Steve was moving too fast, saying too little. Not communicating, and the worry was scoring deep lines like orange clawmarks into Sam’s brain:  was Steve okay? Was their friendship okay? Why was he already getting up, avoiding Sam’s gaze and his arms and the modicum of snuggling Sam had really been hoping to get out of this???  Was that pathetic? That was probably pathetic. But Sam always snuggled with his partners, and he hugged when things were shitty, and this was _both._

The post-orgasmic fuzziness wasn’t helping Sam’s mental state, either.  

Steve staggered leftward, then ducked and came up with Sam’s shirt.  He tossed it over. “Come on,” he said. His voice was rough. He was standing, but not upright; he was bent slightly at the waist, spine curving forward.  Favoring the soreness Sam had inflicted.

The fog in Sam’s brain started to clear, and when it curled aside, it revealed mostly devastation.  

Sam wanted to check in on Steve, so, _so_ badly:  “You okay, man?” he could say, or “you’re not too hurt?”  But the former was obviously not true— ass-favoring aside, being forced to fuck in front of an alien cheering section was pretty much guaranteed to inflict _some_ kind of trauma— and as for the second thing, well...  if Steve _was_ too hurt, there wasn’t much either of them could do about it, was there?

“Let’s go get Clint and Wanda,” Steve said.  His back was turned. He wasn’t looking at Sam.

Sam’s stomach curled, filling with acid and lead.  “Sure,” he said.

 

* * *

 

Apparently, once their debt was paid, no one gave a shit about what Clint and Wanda had done.  It was like they’d never even offended the Capricans in the first place. The Capricanse high council became gracious, offering the use of a hyperspeed spaceship and provisions for the long trip back to Earth.  

The spaceship was large, with cabins for each of them and rec room, complete with Capricanse game console.  It— the ship, not the gaming system— had the bizarre, irregular shape of a vessel which was never intended to enter atmosphere, like a pile of garbage all stuck together with superglue, and operated on telepathic input from the helmsmen.  The Capricans assured them it would make the trip in three to five days, which was a lot fewer than Sam had been expecting.

Twenty-three hours in, Sam found Steve in the rec room, shifting uncomfortably and poking at the game console, completely failing to make it work.  He watched the tiny frown between Steve’s brows— reflexively took a second to appreciate it, like he would the intense concentration of a golden retriever puppy— then snorted.

“Give that shit up, man.  I tried earlier, that thing hates us and refuses to work.  I think it might need telepathy or something.”

Sam finished pouring his probably-not-a-beer and then joined Steve at the console, just in case he was wrong and Steve could get it to turn on.  The chairs were swingy things, shockingly like office chairs, and not uncomfortable if you sat in them regularly. Which Steve wasn’t doing: he was shifting around, first slouching backwards then leaning forward, hunching over his own knees to glare at the gaming center.  He was constantly in motion, resting for no more than a few seconds in each position before shifting around, trying something else.

Sam frowned.  “Are you okay?  Why are you sitting funny?”  

And then, a second later—

“Oh, fuck!”  Sam sighed. “I have definitely said stupider things than that, but...”  He shook his head, bringing his own feet up to sit on the edge of the chair.  “Sorry, Steve. I wasn’t trying to rub salt in it.”

Steve looked gently puzzled for all of half a second before comprehension dawned and he turned red.  He jerked his gaze away from Sam’s face and curled over so far Sam thought he might puke. “That’s not—” he said, “I mean, I didn’t— that wasn’t what—”  

He apparently gave up on words, flailing his hands in the air.  He grabbed the drink on the edge of the console and chugged it, throat working around the gulps until it was empty.  He probably didn’t even realize the drink had been Sam’s.

Steve burped softly.  He even _burped_ cute, Jesus, and— oh no.  No no no, Sam did not need his long-dormant crush on Steve Rogers to have been reawakened by decent-but-also-genuinely-awful sex.  He had _been_ through this.  He had done his time in the hell-circle which was being in love with Steve— Steve, who had never once seemed to notice Sam’s crush, and who had put himself into danger every damned day like it wasn’t going to break Sam’s heart if something happened to him.  

Sam couldn’t imagine anything worse than setting himself up for another year of secret heart-eyes and daydreams at the sight of Steve’s stupid crooked nose.  He had probably _deserved_ to get it broken, honestly.  This _sucked._  Steve could probably tie his shoelaces, and Sam would think it was adorable.  

_Jesus._

“It wasn’t that it hurts— I mean, it doesn’t hurt,” Steve was saying, probably lying.  He must’ve caught the look on Sam’s face that said he thought so, though, because he added, “I mean it.  Healing factor: it maybe ached a little at first, but that was over ages ago. I really am fine.”

“Ages ago” struck Sam as subjective, since the whole thing had been less than a day, but he’d take it.  The healing factor was fairly reliable, anyway, even if Steve had a well-documented tendency to conceal his own wounds.

 _Which is adorable,_ Sam’s brain insisted.  Sam took a second to try to murder his brain by self-inducing an aneurysm.

“It’s just,” Steve went on, oblivious _just the way he always had been, the asshole,_ “it felt kind of... vulnerable, I guess.  I keep— keep remembering, going over what it was like.  That’s all.”

And just like that, the rose-colored glasses slipped off again.  Steve wasn’t cute, he was traumatized, and Sam needed to get his act together _yesterday_ to take care of him.  He dropped his arms— and when had he crossed them? — letting them flop across the arm-rests of the Capricanse rolly-chair, wrists up to keep him from clutching.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

“For what?”  Steve wasn’t looking at him, and his voice sounded odd.  Thick, that was it. And resigned. “Not your fault.”

Sam closed his eyes and relaxed his fingers; despite his best intentions, his hands had curled into fists again.  He took a deep breath, in and out, and tried again. “It may not have been my fault— hell, may not be anyone’s fault, really— but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.  I’m not oblivious to the part where you were _coerced,_ Steve.  Hell, I’m not oblivious to the part where _I_ was coerced, and I know for a fact that I’d’ve been willing to do that with you anytime if you had ever said you wanted to.”

Steve’s head jerked up, his eyes wide.  His mouth was gaping. “You _would?!”_

Sam snorted and waved a hand at him. _“Hell_ yeah; have you met you?  Point is, though, that was not normal circumstances.  Those were what count as _extremely bad_ circumstances, they can _absolutely_ induce trauma, and if you’re feeling raw— man, that is _normal._  That is a hundred percent what I would’ve expected you to feel in that situation— hell, that is the lightest, best possible _version_ of what I would’ve expected you to feel.  So don’t go beating yourself up, okay?”

Sam leaned forward, trying to catch Steve’s eye to make sure he understood.  Steve avoided his gaze like a champ and shook his head, stubborn at every turn.  “It’s not that,” he insisted. “I don’t think it’s because... I mean, I’d probably be feeling... open... no matter what the circumstances were, right?”

Sam frowned and opened his mouth before the import of Steve had said hit him.  He paused, letting the words turn around in his head for a second. Steve shifted position again, curling his knees up by his chest, bracing himself into the smallest possible space a human his size could take up the same way he did behind his shield.

“Steve.”

“Maybe we should stop talking about it.”  Steve’s head was pressing back, now, grinding against the too-tall back of the Capricanse furniture.  

 _“Steve._ Please, _please_ tell me that wasn’t the first time you had ever had sex.”

Steve was making absolutely stead rock-solid eye contact with a decorative metal bar about twenty feet away.

“Steve, _please!”_ Sam couldn’t keep the genuine horror out of his voice.  Steve deserved _everything,_ he deserved moonlight and roses and silk sheets for his first time, and Sam had always kind of assumed he didn’t get any of those— because he’d have done it during the Great Depression, right?  They wouldn’t have been available. Except, no, that wasn’t why Steve hadn’t gotten those, he hadn’t gotten those because _Sam had failed to give them to him_ when they had sex _as a legal punishment,_ in front of an audience of _thousands of aliens,_ to keep their friends out of _alien jail._

Sam was a worm.  He was an actual, segmented worm.  He deserved to eat dirt for the rest of his life— no, not even that.  He deserved to starve to death on a lack of dirt because even having dirt around his wormy self sounded too good for him.  

Steve groaned, letting his head bang down against his knees.  “Why do you think I called dibs on bottom?” he asked, voice muffled.  “If I’d been on top, I wouldn’t’ve known what I was doing.”

“Steve.  If you...”  Sam heard his voice catch and break in the middle, felt the naked horror leaking out around the lump in his throat.  “If you didn’t know, then... You can’t consent if you don’t know what’s going on. If you had no clue what you were getting into, then... you couldn’t... choose.”

Steve popped his head up off his knees and glared, but before he said anything, the glare faded, turning to uncertainty.  “I guess...” He looked like he was chewing it over before turning his head the other way and resting it on his knees, eyes focused across the room once again.  

He didn’t argue further, after that; he just sat there, broken looking, not saying anything.  And since this was Steve Rogers, that was the most worrying thing of all.

They stayed there in the rec room until the motion sensors tripped over and the lights powered off, two men wrapped in horror, not talking as the spaceship sped through the stars and darkness.  There was still a long, long journey to go before they could make it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually think of myself as someone who writes unhappy ending fic, but people keep telling me that a) yes I am and b) I'm actually good at it, if... yknow... ripping people's hearts out is something you want to be good at. Normally I protest this characterization, but for this fic, since that was the request, I leaned into it. 
> 
> If it helps, Sam's wrong about Steve not being able to consent. Steve may not have done it before, but he had enough of the idea to be able to say yes or no, and eventually some patient soul is going to kick Sam's ass and tell him that. Entirely likely he and Steve will end up together after that, that just... wasn't the point of this particular fic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun story: I actually had the request wrong, and my friend _did_ want a hopeful ending. Luckily, I kind of already knew how that would go, so this is me writing it up real fast.

"Yeah, that's bullshit."

Clint didn't just use arrows.  It was a common misconception about him, liberally encouraged by Clint himself for strategic reasons, but actually he could shoot just about any trajectory weapon ever made.  Sam had, no lie, once seen him take out a flying saucer with a mangonel.  At least the aliens had had it coming. 

So the shooting range was, absolutely, a reasonable place for Clint to be... except for the part where Sam knew good and well that Clint had come here _this_ time to talk with Sam about what the hell had happened with the Capricans.  

And, okay, it was  _possible_ that Sam was here because he wanted Clint to do just that.  He wasn't admitting anything, but Clint was pretty good at giving advice, notwithstanding that Sam had once seen him fail to successfully drink a Capri Sun.  

Clint was wrong this time, though.

"Steve gave the impression he knew what he was getting into, but he didn't."  Sam reloaded, focusing a little too much on the rifle as he spoke.  "And if he didn't know what he was getting into, he couldn't consent.  Not that the consent was all that valid in the first place, since there wasn't another choice--"

"Also bullshit."  Clint turned and hopped up on the barrier, preventing Sam from seeing the target and making it impossible for Sam to dodge the rest of the conversation by going back to the guns.  "Number one:  if you have to have sex to know it 's like, no virgin ever has ever consented.  And  _that's_ clearly bullshit, so..."

Sam stopped checking the rifle.  The rifle didn't need it any more, anyway.  "You think it counted?"  His voice came out needy.  He  _was_ needy; he needed the shred of hope.   _Fuck._

"As consent?  You mean when the grown-ass adult who-- and please don't ask how I am so sure about this because frankly I am scarred for life, but-- who definitely has access to porn, and who is very clear on the general mechanics of sex...  You're asking me do I think  _his_ consent was valid?  Because yes, yes I do, you dumbass."

"Oh."  Sam collapsed against the wall in relief, sliding down until he was sitting, back pressed up against the cool of the wall.  "Okay, okay...  Yeah, okay, that's-- that makes good sense, actually.  Yeah.  Okay.  I can handle that."  He let his head tip back, closing his eyes.  His limbs felt watery, his stomach clenched with nerves.

"And anyway... that's only half the point," Clint continued.  He swung his feet especially hard, kicking Sam lightly in the thigh.  Sam opened his eyes, feeling unnaturally tired.  It was a strain to keep his mind on the topic, a strain to keep talking at all.  Sam recognized it too well:  the exhaustion of relief.  His counselor friends would say it was a sign that he was too close to the situation.

He shook his head at himself and refocused on Clint.  "Yeah?  Why, what's the other half?"

"Other half is, it's  _Steve."_ Clint shrugged, raising his eyebrow as if that were a sufficient summary.  And sometimes Clint did that, seeing something obscure and thinking it was so obvious that he didn't even have to point it out,  but Clint was their eyes, and he saw best from a distance, so Sam really needed him to get explicit on this one.  Sam gave him a blank look until he continued:  "Y'know,  _Steve?_ Steve who has a healing factor and had to be formally reprimanded for jumping out of airplanes without a parachute?  That Steve?"

Sam must've continued to look blank, because Clint shook his head and kicked his heels against the wall impatiently. 

"Look, you're looking at all these different punishments they offered you-- and sorry about that, by the way, I swear we didn't think they could hear us-- and you're saying, 'oh, this is the only one that won't hurt, we'll do that.'  But I guarantee you, Steve was not looking at it the same way, because Steve  _does not care_ if he gets hurt.  Steve once, I swear to God,  _got stabbed,_ in the arm, pulled the knife out with his other hand,  _shrugged,_ and tossed the knife aside like an apple core on the grounds that 'it'll heal sooner or later.'  He has a healing factor, and he  _uses it._ C'mon Sam, I know you've seen this."

Sam had seen it.  Seen it, and bitched about it.  "Sure, but what's your point?"

"Point is, you don't need to worry that Steve felt coerced into having sex, because from Steve's perspective, there were plenty of options.  Wasn't there one that was a whipping?  Guarantee you, you hadn't been there, he'd've gone for that one.  Wouldn't have thought twice about it, either."

Sam's brain was stalling out, the mental equivalent of dead air.  "Then..."  His lips were numb.  He licked them and tried again.  "Then why did he pick... me?  Why pick that punishment, if he had choices...?"

Clint snorted and looked at him like he was a moron.

Which, okay:  he probably  _was_ a moron.

Sam said, "I should probably go talk to Steve about this."

"That would be good, yes.  And take a shower first!"  Clint was shouting at Sam's retreating back, now, as Sam made his way to the door.  "You smell like a shooting range. _And take some flowers with you!"_

 


End file.
